by Amy Cross
"The game lends itself to paranoia," I point out. "It's a trap you'd do well to avoid".
"Perhaps you're right," he replies, stopping as we reach the end of the street. "I'm afraid I have business back at the parliamentary estate, but I can assure you that I'll get to the bottom of this. The game can't be allowed to suffer. If one or more players are unable to compete to the best of their ability, the remainder can choose to nominate them for removal. I'd hate to do something like that, but I've become very loyal to the game over the past few years. I won't allow the mistakes of others to overshadow the game's true purpose". With that, he turns and starts walking away.
As soon as he's far enough along the street, I turn and start making my way back toward Henrietta's house. This conversation with Mr. White has put me on edge, and it's clear that he's working in the background. It's been five years since I was first drawn into the game, and perhaps I've allowed myself to get too comfortable. I need to persuade Henrietta to join with me in breaking the bonds that keep us on this course. Unfortunately, it's becoming increasingly clear that we might, in the process, be forced to send Mr. White to an early grave.
Elly
Today
"She was drunk," explains Frank Raynard, slouched on a chair in the corner of his hotel room while a group of police officers examine the scene. The window's wide open, and a cold wind is blowing in, past the fluttering curtains. "She always gets drunk when we go out, and when she gets drunk she gets..." He pauses for a moment, staring at the blank beige wall. "She gets sad. Sometimes angry, but usually sad. She starts dwelling on all the little insignificant problems in her life. The regrets, and then she..." His voice trails off, as if he's run out of words.
"It must have been an accident," says one of the other men in the room.
"No," Frank replies, shaking his head. "She was on the ledge for a couple of minutes. I'd been downstairs, dealing with a few things at reception, and I came up to the room and found her sitting on the edge, as if she was ready to jump. She knew what she was doing. I saw the look in her eyes when she let go and fell back. Something was different tonight. She was going on and on about being tired, and not being allowed to play the game. She kept mentioning the name Thomas Grant, but I don't have a clue who that is". He turns to the rest of us. "Have you ever heard of Thomas Grant?"
I shake my head. Looking over at Mark, who's loitering by the door, I see a curious look in his eyes, as if he does know the name Thomas Grant.
"Do you know the last thing she said before she fell?" Frank continues.
"Maybe we shouldn't get into this right now," Mark says, clearly uncomfortable.
"Let him," I whisper, figuring that Frank needs people around him right now.
"She said that she wanted someone named Mr. Blue to burn in hell". Frank pauses for a moment. "What the hell does that mean? Thomas Grant? Mr. Blue? Was she just plucking these names out of thin air?" He looks at me, and then at Mark, and then over at the police officers; it's as if he thinks that, between us, we can somehow give him the answers he craves. "Was she insane?" he continues after a moment. "I should have done something sooner about her drinking. She always took far too much, whenever we went out. I knew it was damaging her, and I knew alcohol was a depressant, but I never thought..." He looks over at the empty window.
"Elly," Mark says quietly. "We should go".
"Let's just wait a bit longer," I reply.
"It's okay," Frank says. "You don't need to stay. I'll probably have to go to the police station and tell them what happened". He pauses for a moment. "Elly, did she say anything to you? I noticed you were talking to her earlier tonight. Did she mention anything that might explain what happened?"
"No," I say, glancing over at Mark.
"What was she talking about?" Frank asks.
"Nothing much," I reply, trying to give as few details as possible. "Just... girl stuff". I immediately regret my choice of words; that phrase 'girl stuff' makes it seem as if we were just gabbling away about nothing in particular. I feel guilty, as if I've reduced Isabella's final hours to the level of some inane, pointless gossip session. "She seemed troubled," I continue after a moment. "She was talking about getting older and -"
"We really should be going," Mark says firmly.
"It's okay," Frank says, waving us away. "Please, I need to focus. There's so much to do. I need to have the body taken back home. I need to call her family". He pauses, and I can see that his hands are trembling. "We'll talk in the morning," he says eventually. "Really, there's nothing anyone can do. It was just a tragic accident. Please, you must go and get some sleep. It's been such a long night".
"Come on," Mark says, reaching out a hand for me to take. "We'll come back in the morning".
As Mark and I walk along the corridor, heading to the elevators, I find myself troubled by something. A short while ago, Mark said that he went to speak to Frank and Isabella in their room, but now Frank claims he was downstairs and came up to find his wife already halfway out the window. Something about those two stories doesn't quite match up; the only logical explanation is that Mark must have spoken to Isabella before Frank returned to the room, which means Mark was the last person to see her before she climbed out through the window, which means he must be lying about what happened.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," he says as we step into the elevator.
"It's fine," I say, even though I keep replaying the image over and over again. Mark was standing in our room, with his back to the window, and Isabella's body just dropped like a stone in the background. At that precise moment, she must have been alive, only to smash into the ground a couple of seconds later.
"Death is a part of life," he continues as the elevator goes down. "It's a -"
"I get it," I say, cutting him off before he can spout any more of his pretentious bullshit. Right now, I really just want to get some time alone, so that I can think about everything that's happened. It feels like someone has suddenly thrown a whole load of ideas at me, and somehow I've got to rearrange them so they make sense. As the elevator doors open and we walk toward our room, I'm still replaying Isabella's fall over and over in my mind, punctuated by the imagined image of her body shattering as it hit the ground.
"Elly -" Mark starts to say.
"Who's Thomas Grant?" I ask suddenly as we get to the door. "I know you know, so don't even pretend that you don't".
He stares at me for a moment. "Thomas Grant was the previous Mr. Blue," he says eventually. "From what I can tell, he was involved with Isabella. It was probably just some kind of sordid little affair. Nothing major. I don't think it was even part of the game. Whatever happened, it affected her, and it meant that she became aware, at least tangentially, of certain aspects of the game and its rules. Maybe Thomas was weak and told her, or maybe she dug around and stumbled onto some scrap of information. Hell, maybe she overheard a phone call".
"And then she jumped out of a window," I say, meeting his stare. Something about this whole situation still doesn't feel right to me.
"I imagine it's a little more complicated," he replies.
"But you went to their room," I say, determined to get to the truth. I'm starting to realize how little I know about Mark. "You said you saw Frank Raynard but -"
"I lied," he says. "There, I admitted it. I went to see Frank, but he wasn't there. Isabella was drunk. She was going on and on about the game. I told her I had no idea what she was talking about, and..." He pauses for a moment. "When I left that room, she was drunk and she was sitting on her bed, sobbing. With hindsight, perhaps I should have waited for Frank, but I doubt it would have made much difference. Sometimes, peoples' lives are set on a course that no-one can change. There was sadness in her eyes. None of us could have changed that".
"What happened to the previous Mr. Blue?" I ask, still feeling as if Mark is leaving out some crucial details.
"I don't know".
"You must know," I reply. "Where is he now?"
"Dead".
I feel my chest tighten as I realize how casually Mark seems to take the darker aspects of the game.
"I don't know the details," he continues. "The game can be exhausting. It takes a lot out of us all, and it leaves us drained. Lady Red keeps a record of everything that happens, but I've never asked to look at that record. It doesn't matter to me what happened to the previous players. I'm just focused on what I'm doing right now". He pauses. "I'm focused entirely and exclusively on you, Elly. No-one else. And I know you must feel that you're on the edge of the game, with no way of understanding what's really happening, but I can assure you that you're safe".
I nod, figuring there's no point arguing with him. He's got an answer for everything.
"You didn't really think that I had anything to do with Isabella's death, did you?" he continues.
"No," I say, although I'm pretty sure he knows I'm lying.
"Look at me," he replies, putting his hands on my shoulders. "I know you don't know me so well yet, but you must know me enough to realize that I'd never... I mean, it's ludicrous to even think that I'd do anything to hurt someone. If I'd known that Isabella Raynard was suicidal, I'd have stayed with her".
"Just answer one more thing for me," I reply. "How dangerous is the game?"
He pauses, and I can see that he's not sure what to say.
"Do people die?" I continue.
"No," he replies firmly. "The game is safe. It's just a game, Elly. It's fun". Opening the door to our hotel room, he steps inside. "It's late. We should get some sleep. We'll have to check on Frank in the morning, and then we'll go to the airport. I was thinking we could go to Singapore for a few days, just to relax and -"
"I want to go back to London," I say firmly.
"But Singapore -"
"Why are you so scared of going back?" I ask.
"I'm not scared -"
"You are," I say. "I can see it in your eyes. I'd love to go to Singapore some time, but not right now. I want us to go back to London tomorrow, even if it's just for a week or two. I want to see my mother and make sure she's okay".
"I can have someone check on her," he replies.
"I want to see her," I say. "Mark, if you're hiding something -"
"Fine," he says, interrupting me. "We'll go back to London tomorrow. I'm not hiding anything. I just thought you'd like to see Singapore, but we can do that another time". He pauses for a moment. "I'm going to get ready for bed. Are you coming?"
"In a minute," I say. As he heads through to the bathroom, I'm left standing in the doorway. There's a part of me that wants to turn and run, to get as far away from this game as possible. Then again, there's another part of me that thinks I just made a huge mistake by asking Mark all those questions. I wish I could trust him a little more; I wish there was some kind of innate, deep down feeling of trust in my soul, and that all these thoughts could just vanish. Instead, I can't shake the feeling that Mark and the game are much darker than I'd previously realized. Still, I guess it'd be too easy to let myself get caught up in this kind of paranoid fear. I should just put my concerns aside and focus on the fact that Mark and I are having fun together.
Glancing across the room, I see the window and I immediately think back to the image of Isabella's falling body. I hope to God that I never end up like her. She had money, and sex, and apparently she even felt she was loved by her husband. The one thing she lacked, however, was affection. Stepping into the room and pushing the door shut, I feel a shiver pass through my body.
Jonathan Pope
1901
Standing alone in the darkened conservatory of Lady Henrietta deHavilland's London home, with moonlight streaming through the windows and casting strange shadows across the marble floor, I find myself listening to the silence. It's so rare for London to afford one the opportunity of complete peace and calm these days, with the city becoming increasingly overbuilt and industrialized. One usually has to escape to the country in order to get some solitude and calm, but right here, despite being in the heart of the city, I feel genuine peace for the first time in many, many years.
"They say the Queen is dead," says a familiar voice nearby, as I hear the conservatory doors open.
Turning, I see Lady Red stepping into the room. I call her Lady Red these days, because that is how I know her best, although polite society still thinks of her as Lady Henrietta deHavilland, esteemed and noble wife of Benjamin deHavilland, the prominent parliamentarian and businessman. I wonder what the society gossips of London would say right now if they could see her, standing stark naked in the moonlight and smiling at me.
"Her Majesty has been ill for quite some time," Lady Red says, walking past me as she makes her way to the drinks cabinet. "All sorts of rumors have been circulating, but I hear it on good authority that she passed away this evening. It's hard to believe, isn't it? Such a powerful woman, but eventually her body betrayed her mind. The news is to be made formal in the morning, and then I suppose that awful little Edward will get his turn on the throne. Once again, a man shall reign over us all". She pours us each some wine, before handing me a glass. "A toast. To the end of the House of Hanover, and the dawn of whatever shitty dynasty we're left with when the dust settles".
"A toast," I say wryly, sipping from my glass. "You must excuse my attire," I add after a moment. "I was not aware that clothes were optional tonight".
"It's almost eleven," she replies, fixing me with a determined stare. "I feel one should never wear clothes after nine unless one is in polite company. You are a lot of things, Jonathan, but you are most certainly not polite company". She pauses for a moment. "I hope not, anyway. Not tonight. I have an itch that I need you to scratch".
"And where might that itch be located?" I ask.
She smiles. "About six inches inside".
I glance over at the door.
"Benjamin is in Cheltenham," she continues. "I believe he'll be back tomorrow once the Queen's death is announced, but for now I doubt he'll hear much from such a distance. If you're worried about the servants, I can assure you that they will be very discreet. They have been very well trained".
"You called for me," I reply, determined to get any official business out of the way before we embark upon the more pleasurable part of our encounter.
"Did I?" she asks. "Oh! Yes, I did! I nearly forgot! Well, first of all, I felt I should have some company following the news of the Queen's death. Do you think I should apply to replace her? Edward's never going to be much good, and I'm sure Victoria would have liked to have been succeeded by a strong woman. You do think I'm a strong woman, don't you? It's so hard to tell these days".
"I think this country would be much improved if a woman such as yourself were ever to take the throne".
"Precisely," she replies, finishing her glass of wine. "Unfortunately for the British people, no-one with an ounce of wit or intelligence would ever want to hold public office. We're all too busy enjoying ourselves. That's why the fools and the morons are able to advance so well. If you ever want proof that Mr. Darwin's theories are flawed, and that the strongest and brightest do not necessarily rise to the top, you have only to take a peek into our parliamentary estate". She smiles. "I believe Mr. Darwin would have made a fine Mr. White. He had such imagination".
Finishing my wine, I place the glass aside before stepping closer to Lady Red and leaning close to kiss her. Her lips are so soft and willing, and she kisses me delicately but with passion. Reaching up, I ran my fingers against her bare neck before placing my hand on her shoulder. Finally, just when it seems that this kiss could last forever, she pulls away. As always happens after we kiss, there's a look of shock on her face.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
She shakes her head.
"It's been five years since this began," I continue. "Do you not think that it's time for us to -"
"No!" she says firmly. "Must we have this argument every time we spend time together, Jonathan? There's no place for emotion in the game. It's a cold, clinic
al exercise, and it's concerned solely with the body. Emotion is a weakness, something to be manipulated in order to maintain control over those who are less enlightened". She pauses for a moment. "Can I share a prediction with you? I believe that by the end of this century, by the end of the year 1999, all human emotion will have been eradicated. This can only be a good thing. Humans do so much damage, careering about hurting one another. I feel quite certain that emotions shall eventually be outlawed, and it's to be hoped that science can progress to the point where we are able to pluck such undesirable impulses from the minds of our children as soon as they are born".
"That's what you really want?" I ask. "An end to emotions?"
She nods.
"And is that aim compatible with the game?"
"It would end the game," she replies. "Perhaps it's the only way that the game can be brought to a conclusion. Emotions are a terrible mistake. They lead to..." She pauses, and a single tear falls down her cheek. "They lead to problems such as this, Jonathan. The idea of Lady Red and Mr. Blue being involved in some kind of tryst is... It's simply impossible to countenance".
"And yet you do countenance it," I continue. "Several times a week for the past five years, in fact. You let this happen, and yet you constantly insist that it's a mistake".
"It is a mistake," she says. "I've consulted the records. As far as I can tell, there has never before been any kind of emotional attachment between two players in the game. Of course, if it had happened, I'm sure attempts would have been made to keep it secret, but still..." She pauses, and I can see the distress in her eyes. "I worry, Jonathan. The game has ways of detecting anomalies and correcting them, and I can't help but wonder why it has allowed us to get away with these secret meetings for so long. The game itself is suffering. As Mr. Blue, you should be out looking for young ladies, but you neglect your work terribly".
